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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25588222">the world will always smell of salt</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy'>Kt_fairy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Canonical Dog Death, Feelings, Gen, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, cause grim times, everyone is having a very bad time, implied fitzier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:42:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,396</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25588222</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Older Midshipmen and sailors used to terrify the ship’s boys with this when James had been young; horrid tales of shipwrecks in distant places, of lots drawn, of bones picked over in order to survive. <em>"Be glad that you be on a English ship, lads,"</em> they used to say with relish, <em>"fer the French have a taste for boy." </em></p><p> Officers assured them it was the last resort of those who had never received the fine training and strict discipline of the British Navy. It was a warning of the very worst thing that could occur on the barren, uncaring sea; a thing that so rarely happened it had become little more than a ghost story. </p><p> And yet here James was, sitting on a barren, uncaring island with scurvy in his bones and a gnawing ache in his stomach.</p><p> </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>59</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the world will always smell of salt</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Had this thought punting around my head for a while now, but it's never fit into anything I was writing. So here we are, I'm finally having a grim enough lockdown time to write it. </p><p>I invented the implied/reference cannibalism tag for this fic, let that be your warning.</p><p>Thank you, as always, to MsKingBean for reading this more than once, and for making me coherent about ailments.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em><br/> Then we are utterly destroyed - if we add a new calamity/ to our old ones, before we’re done/enduring those<br/></em>
</p><p>
  <em><br/>- Euripides, Medea<br/></em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> James had never forgotten the effect a musket ball had on a man's head. Neither being shot himself an hour later, not the passing of years since China had scoured it from his mind; the burst of red, so much darker than the marine’s uniform, flung into the air before the body had dropped like a sack of wheat from the walls of Chinkiang.</p><p> </p><p> He had not seen Morfin fall, the bright shattering of the lamp in his hand had been blinding. Still, he knew well enough what the fizz of a musket and the heavy, clattering thud on the shingle meant.</p><p> </p><p> In the aftermath, the bitter smell of gunpowder lingered in the air; James unsure if the faint stench of death was the product of his own imagination or not. Terror Camp was muted and still, the quiet pressing against the thin walls of his tent, and James was not sure if it soothed or compounded the ache just behind his eyes. His vision, already blurred at the edges, was slow to recover from the flare of light, and now struggled with the eerily still shadows cast by the lamp Francis had brought with him.</p><p> </p><p> James was not hurt by the breaking of the lamp, nor the shot that had smashed it out of his hand. He was sure he would feel it if glass or metal was embedded in his aching body. Or rather, he hoped so. </p><p> </p><p> Standing together in the middle of his stuffy tent, James allowed Francis to look at the smuts the hot whale oil had left on his hand and sleeve. Allowed Francis to run his fingers lightly over the folds of James’ gansey and the line of his trousers, checking that he was not hurt, nor that he would be, by any stray pieces of glass.</p><p> </p><p> James knew he was too thin beneath his clothes. And he knew that Francis’ touch, no matter how gentle, would reveal the sharp press of his ribs beneath all his layers of clothes; worn as much to protect his body from collecting more bruises as it was to keep the cold at bay.</p><p> </p><p> He was unwell in the way that might quickly become dying, and from the way Francis looked up at him, the hazy lamplight catching the worry that sat deep in his ever expressive gaze, he knew it too. </p><p> </p><p>*<b>*</b>*</p><p> </p><p>“Captain Fitzjames?”</p><p> </p><p> James huffed, taking his hand away from his left eye that was as much pain as vision now, and looked up at Dundy who was silhouetted in opening of his tent. “You only use my rank when you have brought me bad news.”</p><p> </p><p>“I am afraid that is the case here also.” There was grim tension in Dundy’s voice, the shingle crunching as he moved a pace closer to where James was sitting at his desk, “I wanted to speak to you of something before the command meeting.”</p><p> </p><p> James sighed, pushing aside what was left of the sparse breakfast he had not managed to force into his cramping stomach. “What’s happened?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mr Hoar reported to me at the end of first watch that Neptune has got out, and he is nowhere to be found still.”</p><p> </p><p>“The dog got out?” James repeated, the pain in his side stopping him from leaning back in his chair as he sent Dundy a weary look. “Is this not for Edward’s attention?” </p><p> </p><p> Dundy shoved his fingers through his unwashed hair, his overbright eyes making the dark smudges beneath them all the more apparent. “Mr Hoar said he left the gate open, which… Fagin went missing before we left the ships, and I cannot say I care for the coincidence.”</p><p> </p><p> The agitation at the edge of Dundy’s voice was not obvious, but James was hardly so weary in body and mind that he failed to hear it. He frowned, and motioned for him to continue with a wave of his hand.</p><p> </p><p>“I went out calling for him. As we need a look out with sharper senses than…” Dundy paused, resting his fist on the edge of James’ desk as he leant in close. “There is blood and black fur out on the rocks, James. And badly butchered bones.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good Christ.”</p><p> </p><p>“Someone’s eaten the bloody dog,” Dundy said quietly. “I am hungry but - are we already <em> that </em> hungry?”</p><p> </p><p> The three days spent hauling through, and over, the maze of the pack had been punishing work. The physical labour would have been nothing to healthy sailors, but they had  been hungry and sickening before they had left the ships. Even if rescue was coming from Fort Resolution - and it was not - eight hundred miles of hauling across arid land lay ahead of them; it was no wonder that the men were turning to their empty stomachs.</p><p> </p><p> James said as much, watching discomfort pass over Dundy’s face as he glanced away, nodding distractedly. "I do not like to admit the direction my thoughts turned, but I have looked in on Morfin, to - to check he has not..."</p><p> </p><p>“Oh... <em>Dundy</em>," James hissed, "that is beyond -"</p><p> </p><p>"We are all well versed on what sailors have been forced to do in order to survive."</p><p> </p><p>"We have <em> food </em> yet remaining."</p><p> </p><p>"And still the dog is gone!" there was a tinge of hysteria in his voice that was quickly quashed. "I am sorry. I do not wish to think on this, but the tinned food does not sustain. Maybe we have lived too long on it, or - the spoiling Irving discovered has… "</p><p> </p><p> Dundy took a deep breath and fell silent, glancing away with a look of great strain on his face.</p><p> </p><p> When James had been young, the older Midshipmen and sailors used to terrify the boys with horrid tales of shipwrecks in distant places, of lots drawn, of bones picked over in order to survive. "<em>Be glad that you be on a English ship, lads," </em> they used to say with relish, "<em>fer the French have a taste for boy."  </em></p><p> </p><p> Officers assured them it was the last resort of those foreigners who had never received the fine training and strict discipline of the British Navy. It was a warning of the very worst thing that could occur on the barren, uncaring sea; a thing that so rarely happened it had become little more than a ghost story. </p><p> </p><p> And yet here James was, sitting on a barren, uncaring island with scurvy in his bones and an gnawing ache in his stomach.</p><p> </p><p> James lay his hand on Dundy’s shivering forearm, saying quietly, “I will keep it in mind.”</p><p> </p><p>*<b>*</b>*</p><p> </p><p> The acrid smell of burning rolled over them still. They had been hauling for four days. Maybe six. Man-hauling over dry, unsteady ground with hardly a shift of breeze in the air, nor a cloud to cover the sun whose light glared off the rocky ground and directly into James’ good eye.</p><p> </p><p> His body smarted in a way physical exertion had never affected him before. His chest already felt as if it had moulded to the hauling harness, sweat stung and itched at his skin, blood a rancid tang in the back of his throat. Each inhale of dry air came with the smell, the <em> taste </em> of the crew they had been forced to burn rather than bury.</p><p> </p><p> At first he had wondered what those men who had fled in mutiny had thought upon coming back to the camp and finding their comrades as nothing more than ash and burnt bones. Now, he could hardly spare them a thought. His head already ached constantly, and he could not say if the hauling or the smell had made it worse. A throb lingered behind his eyes, and his stomach - which twinged painfully whether empty or not - churned in a way that was not quite the nausea of revulsion.</p><p> </p><p> James did not look at those hauling beside him, keeping his head down as he struggled to keep pace with Bridgens while crossing over a patch of slipping shingle. He did not want to confirm his fear that only he could smell the burned flesh of those men he was responsible for. Nor did he want to see their reaction if they could; either damning him with their instinctual disgust, or letting months and months of hunger show in their eyes.</p><p> </p><p> They were not that hungry, James told himself, keeping his eyes on the flat horizon that seemed to get further and further away with every step they struggled onwards.</p><p> </p><p>*<b>*</b>*</p><p> </p><p> James winced as he dropped down onto an upturned box, his hips protesting at the action as every one of the aches in his body flared into pain.</p><p> </p><p> He took as deep a breath as he could, eyes lowered to the scuffed toes of his boots until the slow moving camp stopped swirling about him. James sipped at the ice melt in his canteen, swilling it around his mouth to banish the dryness while he watched the men as they silently gathering around Little to receive their rations.</p><p> </p><p> A figure stepped away, the faded red of his arran clear against the shabby crowd. James pulled his slops tighter about him in a futile attempt to conceal his state from his own steward, who had seen James’ deterioration from the pride of the navy to this - a man who could not sit down without almost fainting. </p><p> </p><p> The ground crunched and clattered under Bridgens' familiar brisk gait as he approached, and James felt a prickle of guilt when he noticed the plate of food in his hands.</p><p> </p><p>"Come now, John," James said when Bridgens reached him, dutifully accepting the chipped plate when it was pressed into his hands. "If I can haul beside you, I can line up for my own food."</p><p> </p><p>"It’s no trouble, sir, I like to keep busy,” Bridgens said mildly, as if they were not both fully aware of how busy he was, being the only man left who had any grasp of doctoring.</p><p> </p><p>"Thank you, John. Make sure you rest," James nodded as he set the plate onto his knees, "and that you eat."</p><p> </p><p>"Aye sir," Bridgens said mildly, concern clear in his kind eyes.</p><p> </p><p>"Good man."</p><p> </p><p> James watched Bridgens go, almost calling him back to try and give up his own meal to him, but he knew Bridgens would never take it. James was ashamed of even this meagre portion, which he knew would do nothing to fill the hollow feeling inside of him; it would only make it worse, the pain disturbing what passed for sleep out here.The food might sustain another better, keep them alive long enough to find game.</p><p> </p><p> <em>Or</em>, that voice of doubt said in the back of his mind, <em> you might simply poison them all the quicker. </em> </p><p> </p><p> He was glad he had lost all sense of taste as he spooned a cold, grey lump into his mouth. James concentrated hard to swallow it down, his attention on the men who were sitting a little way from him, the sound of their metal spoons scraping every morsel from their metal plates a din that fell heavily in the echoless landscape. </p><p> </p><p> The only hope the men had was the food they hauled with them. Tins and tins of it, that might see them all the way to Backs Fish River if it did not poison them just as it had poisoned James. As it was still poisoning him; every mouthful meant to fortify only edging him further and further away from survival. </p><p> </p><p> Knowing of the lead in the tins had not changed anything for the officers, and it would not change anything for the men. This third of a tin, twice a day, was their only recourse unless they happened upon a caribou, or a dead whale, or some other meat. </p><p> </p><p> The dog had already been consumed; the blame for which James would not lay solely on those men who had found their captains so lacking they had put their trust in Hickey. Hunger was now mistress to them all, and she took over your thoughts, made food an obsession that turned men into the sort of desperate creatures Blanky had warned him of. Full of uncivil notions that only friendship and brotherhood, things built on love and trust, could hope to keep at bay.</p><p> </p><p> That unnatural darkness would come to them at some point over their eight hundred miles south, with every passing day James felt the truth of it. And a lie now - for a lie by omission was still a lie, James knew that better than most - might loose that trust when they were most in need of it.</p><p> </p><p> James forced down another mouthful that cloyed in his throat as his gaze flicked over to where Francis was speaking to who looked to be Hartnell, then up to Jopson who was staring at the boxes as if choosing which he might sit upon.</p><p> </p><p>“Here, lieutenant” James said, holding out his plate with one last mouthful upon it. </p><p> </p><p>“Sir,” Jopson protested, the genuine offence in his tired eyes cleareing when James made an insistent motion at him.</p><p> </p><p>“You have done far more running about than I today,” James huffed when Jopson came close, discreetly allowing James use his arm to pull himself upright as he took the plate from him. “And,” James said once he had got his sore feet under him, “I cannot quite face much more of Mr Goldner’s fine cooking.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well. Thank you very much, sir,” Jopson said dubiously, James not failing to notice the way he hid a wince when James patted him on the chest as he made his way over to Francis.</p><p> </p><p>*<b>*</b>*</p><p> </p><p>"Of course I do not want to cause alarm, or further lower morale but - " James sighed, pausing for Francis’ inevitable interruption.</p><p> </p><p>"What good will it do?"</p><p> </p><p>" - we <em> should </em> tell the men about the tinned food. In full, Francis.”</p><p> </p><p>“James,” Francis repeated fractiously from the far side of the bare tent, his agitation clear in the sudden, sharp blue of his gaze that even James’ blurring eyesight could pick out. “What<em> good will it do </em>them to know?”</p><p> </p><p>“We must all pull as one to survive now. The men…” James swallowed past the bloody dryness in his mouth, “the men must be allowed to make their own choices.”</p><p> </p><p>“Choices?” Francis repeated as James was forced to lean upon the tent pole, his head swimming for a moment as the pain in his side throbbed dangerously.</p><p> </p><p> Although all but blind in one eye, James could still see how Francis softened at the pathetic sight he made. He did not hate being pitied, for it had happened so rarely in his life that James had not developed a distaste for it, and was too weary to rail against it now. When his own body felt as sharp and brittle as the ground he stood on, he was glad to have any soft, gentle treatment from Francis.</p><p> </p><p>“I would rather take responsibility, if we get out. Instead of - ”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>If?” </em> Francis said gently, crossing the scant distance between them to lay a cautious hand on James’ elbow, the sensation lost in the constant sense of prickling in his left arm. “I would not have you fall to uncertainty, James. Not now."</p><p> </p><p> It was important that Francis remain sanguine about their situation. If even their commander doubted their chances of making it out, then they were all doomed - but there were times when James had to bite down frustration at his constant, encouraging <em> bonhomie </em>.  </p><p> </p><p>“It is not uncertainty," James said levelly, "or… neither of us were born optimists, Francis, only stubborn." He chanced a smile when Francis nodded, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "I will always persevere if I am able, and so will the men. Which is why I feel we - why I advise, as your second, to tell them, Francis, as we - it is - we are pulling together to get ourselves out, are we not?”</p><p> </p><p>“I do see the wisdom in it,” Francis shook his head in the manner of a man who had the world on his shoulders. “Morale is a different thing now this situation so trying. It is only that I do not wish to give them even more bad news. It will… well."</p><p> </p><p> Their fingers bumped clumsily as James reached put to lightly press his hand, in the only comfort he could really give.</p><p> </p><p> He was prepared to leave his other, grimmer point unsaid. Deserting the ships and a mutiny were stains enough upon a captain, this grim worry that James had carried over miles and miles would be his burden for a few miles more, while he was still able to bear it.</p><p> </p><p>“What did you mean,” Francis inevitably asked, “about choices, and responsibility?”</p><p> </p><p>“It is nothing.”</p><p> </p><p>“I do not believe that to be true,” Francis said, worry threaded through his voice. “You have not been one for trifles and nothings for a good while, James.”</p><p> </p><p> He looked away to the grey floor, then the dirty canvas of the tent. “It was a concern brought to me prior to Irving’s death. That we were hungry before we reached Terror camp, and have over six hundred miles ahead of us now, and we slow with each one gained. I - “ James paused as he looked to Francis’ stricken face; wishing, so very desperately, that someone was out there trying to find them. “When bodies begin to become little more than wasted meat, I would rather have the order be mine and the choice be the men’s, <em> if </em> the time comes, than fall into a barbaric rabble.”</p><p> </p><p> He would do it. Even if he somehow lived through this, James would take all the guilt and the blame and the judgement of those who were now safe in England. For what would standing or <em> reputation </em> matter after all this. </p><p> </p><p>“James, I - I cannot countenance that,” Francis admitted quietly, and James nodded in understanding. No one could lead their scrabble to live with that thought in their head, for using the dead could only be their very last, despairing option. </p><p> </p><p>“I know. I understand,” James said, looking Francis in the eye.</p><p> </p><p>“I<em> know how ill I am</em>,” James did not say, for they both knew it. It was the great cloud over this dire conversation, over James’ thoughts, and all either of them could do was let Francis squeeze James’ hand until it hurt.</p><p> </p><p>*<strong>*</strong>*</p><p> </p><p> The last time James cried was when he had been shot in China. No… no that did not count. Or did it? He had been in miserable agony, fearing a lingering, diseased death far more than had a quick, bloody one. And he was lingering now, was he not? Over these countless weeks and weeks of hauling.</p><p> </p><p> He wept now. Not wracking sobs, the agony in his ribs and his belly had trained him out of them (too weak to cry, and still he would not die, it was almost laughable). So he lay curled up as much as he was able on his stiff, lumpy palette, tears silently running down the side of this nose. Terrified of the next day of hauling. And the next, and the next. </p><p> </p><p> The hand that came to rest on his shoulder did not startle him. James simply lay there, in too much pain to sleep yet so very tired, wishing he could curl up small enough to disappear. Wishing he was dead. Wishing that the weight of Francis’ forehead on his shoulder, familiar and gentle, had not come in a stained tent that stunk of James’ own rot.</p><p> </p><p>“I won’t know what to do, if you…” Francis whispered. A confession. And James almost smiled. He was no Christ, he could bring no relief nor absolve any sins. Only... James flexed his painful fingers before he reached up to touch the top of Francis’ head - not a blessing or benediction or anything like that. Recognition. Solace. A confession all of its own. </p><p> </p><p>An apology.</p><p> </p><p>*<strong>*</strong>*</p><p> </p><p> He is not sure how he fell. Not that it matters.</p><p> </p><p> The ground was warm beneath him. Hot and sunbaked. Burning through his trousers when he failed to get up, the shock of pain in his arms and legs hardly registering beneath the grinding agony in his side.</p><p> </p><p> Murmured voices and grabbing hands dragged him upright, the pain neither growing nor diminishing. </p><p> </p><p> James wondered, vaguely, why the siege of Chianking had gone so quiet as he looked at the blood seeping into his shirt. Then wondered why Francis was here - he should be in the south pole, not in China - before everything tilted and faded, sensation falling away, and James thought;<em> Ah</em>. <em> Finally.</em></p><p> </p><p>*<strong>*</strong>*</p><p> </p><p> <em> He is still, but his whole body jars. Every joint feels as if it is about to shatter to pieces. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>  His face burns, his stomach cramps tighter and tighter as he pushes wet meat down his throat, blood soaking his hair and his face, covering the fur trim of his pristine slops jacket. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>  He holds out his hands, blooded and torn, his nails ripped and his bones pressing through the skin, for more meat from the partial skeleton before him.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>  It smiles, as all skulls do, and pushes aside the dirty, fur lined slops in order to pull off another piece of itself. Dropping it into James' palms for him to swallow down. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>*<strong>*</strong>* </em>
</p><p> </p><p> The voice resounded about his head like the toll of a cracked ship’s bell.</p><p> </p><p> His neck and back all protested when James’ head turned away from it, the movement making him feel he was about to roll clean out of the too hot cocoon of blankets he found himself in.</p><p> </p><p>"Aye," was muttered much more quietly as a gentle hand lay on his chest, the touch remaining until James stopped feeling as if he was on a pitching ship. Then a damp cloth passed over his dry, sore eyes, then his lips, squeezing stale water into his mouth and dripping down into his bloody throat.</p><p> </p><p> He coughed, blinking at what he thought was an apocalyptic, dun coloured sky. He slowly realised that he was laid out in the bow of one of the boats; a dirty sheet rigged over it to provide stifling shade. </p><p> </p><p>"Seems like ye’ are awake, lad,” came Blanky’s muffled voice, his grizzled, sallow form swimming into the vision of James’ good eye. “Though I cannot say if you should be glad of it or not.”</p><p> </p><p> He spat something unpleasant into his fingers, then touched James’ jaw to get him to open his mouth. “Sorry for the liberty,” he said matter-of-factly as he pressed the half chewed meat into the back of James’ throat, “although it will be less so if you are conscious enough to finish the eating of that.”</p><p> </p><p> James tried not to retch at the sensation, managing to swallow the meat rather than choke on it. </p><p> </p><p>“Is - “ James began, closing his eyes against a wave of pain and nausea that receded quickly. “Is it rescue?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not quite,” Blanky murmured. “Lie quiet now. Been given orders not te tax ye.” </p><p> </p><p>“Did we find game?”</p><p> </p><p>“You ask a lot of questions for a man who is all but dead.”</p><p> </p><p> James felt an odd sort of defiance as he asked, “am I?”</p><p> </p><p> A sharp gaze flicked over him as Blanky squeezed more water into his mouth. “No.”</p><p> </p><p> James closed his eyes, breathing steadily as he let the realisation that he lived settle, listening to Blanky moving about beside him, and the more distant sounds of the world outside the boat.</p><p> </p><p>“Not game,” James whispered, and Blanky stilled.</p><p> </p><p>“Two days ago, a vote were taken,” he said around the wet sound of chewing. “Sick should get the liver and such.”</p><p> </p><p> James opened his eyes again to find another mouthful waiting. “Of what?” </p><p> </p><p>“Will that make a difference?” </p><p> </p><p>“Of a kind,” James said, keeping his lips resolutely shut until he was given a name that would be his responsibility to know, and carry with him. Yet in this moment he could not place it, lost along with great portions of the past few years that were all smeared like ink on a water stained page.</p><p> </p><p>“There’s birds been sighted. And a smell of greenery,” Blanky told him after James had grimly eaten. “You don’t realise it smells of owt until you have been parted from it fer a few years.” He sighed as he lent back against the gunwale, rubbing at his leg. “Either we have weathered the worse an’ are coming upon the river. Or it’s wishful thinking,” he patted James on the shoulder. “You might even be here to find out, my lad.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> *<strong>*</strong>* </em>
</p><p> </p><p>They had come upon the rocky shores of the Backs Fish River in a disbelieving daze. </p><p> </p><p> The water ran fast and clear here, free from the grey sea ice that clogged the vast bay they had crossed to reach the river; it burbled and bubbled around the boulders and stone that littered the wide river, the gentle sounds joined by the splashing of the men as they waded into the shallows in stunned silence. </p><p> </p><p> James had viewed it all from the boat, clinging onto the gunwale as he tried to take in the alien shapes of the low hills and scrub with his one good eye. It was a relief, although no-one celebrated. They were only halfway to safety, one difficulty replaced with navigating a river with no charts or familiarity, only the knowledge that eighty-three portages lay ahead of them. So instead there was only the sound of water as James watched Dundy drop down heavily onto a rock, his shoulders shaking as he held his grey head in his hands. </p><p> </p><p> It took two days to ready the boats for the journey ahead, work slow without a carpenter amongst them. And with that done, Francis had finally let them rest.</p><p> </p><p> For three days now they had set about collecting what fish and buds and berries they could find to eat, along with the flesh of a Lynx who had wandered too close and was felled by Private Healy, the last marine from <em> Erebus. </em>The freshness of the food was enough for them to improve, not simply subsist; James’ joints no longer hurt, his head did not swim and throb, and he was kept awake at night by the itching of his re-healing wounds rather than the sharp stinging of the past few weeks.</p><p> </p><p> The way his throat heaved at the sensation of half raw flesh against his remaining teeth could not be helped by better health. Nor could the way his stomach rolled like an unsettled ocean after he ate, culminating, as might have been expected, with James being very ill in a bush.</p><p> </p><p> He would laugh if he were able; his body well enough to rebel against this good meat all because of the memory of what had kept him alive.</p><p> </p><p> Francis was with him, of course, the hand resting between James’ shoulder blades reminding him of draughty tents and shivering despair. His instinct, as he spat and gasped, was to pull away from the memory, but he did not. Instead grasping a handful of Francis' threadbare slops to pull himself upright.</p><p> </p><p> He let his stomach settle before looking over at Francis, finding the same poorly concealed dread in his expression that had been there ever since James had regained his coherency. </p><p> </p><p>"Do you want to lie down a while?" Francis asked, voice cracked with every kind of exhaustion.</p><p> </p><p>"No," James wiped the clammy sweat from his face with his sleeve, considering the faint weakness in his knees and the acid burn in his throat. "I would rather walk a little.”</p><p> </p><p>"Have not indulged in that in a while, have we,” Francis murmured, a shadow of a smile on his weary face when James let out a quiet huff of amusement.</p><p> </p><p> They picked their way slowly upstream from the camp; not moving out of sight of it, but far enough away that James felt he could grip onto Francis’ arm, allowing himself to wince and wheeze as they navigated the river bank. They paused at an rotting tree trunk embedded half in the rocks and half in the river. James perched on it as he swilled his mouth out with a handful of ice cold water, watching Francis toe about in the rivers’ edge until he pulled at a sparse, leafy green plant.</p><p> </p><p>“It is known as duck-potato,” he informed James as he washed the roots before handing it over. “The native name is <em> wapato. </em>It should line your stomach.”</p><p> </p><p> Francis groaned as he lowered himself to sit stiffly next to James, accepting the supportive hand James rested on his back with a nod. They sat in silence, Francis stretching out his legs while James chewed gingerly on the sweet root like an old donkey with a carrot, staring blankly at all the greenery about them that was slowly beginning to turn into autumnal reds and browns. </p><p> </p><p>“The days of rest have done us more good than I thought they would,” James said after a little while, indicating the land about them, “yet I do not think we can wait another day. Not with the miles we have ahead.”</p><p> </p><p>“Winter will come fast when it does arrive,” Francis agreed. “But we have travelled hard already, and one more day’s rest…”</p><p> </p><p>James smiled fondly, touching the side of his hand to Francis’ leg. “We might put it to a vote, see what the men think. As - may I speak for myself, and not for my rank?”</p><p> </p><p>Francis frowned as he nodded for James to continue. </p><p> </p><p>“A day or two might fortify us for the journey, but I would rather reach Fort Resolution in a state of collapse than freeze to death eleven mile from it’s gates in mediocre health.”</p><p> </p><p> Francis nodded, running his hand through his disordered hair that was more grey than red now - the last vestiges of that faint copper lingering in the beard he had given up keeping at bay some miles back. </p><p> </p><p> James looked from Francis to the river, with its rapids and eddies, and a fast moving current at its deepest parts. It was a long way to nurse boats built for deep water, even for men in the prime of health. Which James was most certainly not.</p><p> </p><p>“Live men or dead men, you told me once,” James mused. “That is what it has come down to now.”</p><p> </p><p>“If I had known I was speaking prophetic words, I might have been kinder. Added more hope.”</p><p> </p><p>“Luxuries we did not know we had,” he turned a tight smile on Francis, meeting his eyes before looking away to the large, moss covered rocks about them. “Living this long has come by unspeakable means. Surviving is all wretched necessities, despite what those men who live to write a memoir might say.” James shook his head, “I have not died <em> yet, </em> so I <em> will </em> make it to this fort of yours even if it kills me.”</p><p> </p><p> “There is nothing beyond Fort Resolution for me,” Francis admitted. “It has become all there is, the thing all of my thoughts are turned to. It is as if my - my self waits there for my body to reach it… I can not think of any thing we have done to get here, only how to go on. ”</p><p> </p><p> It was an unspoken truth that they might die here, spread along this river where no-one might ever think to look for them. At least, James thought as he turned his face into the cool, sweet scented breeze, dying amongst verdant life and the sound of water was far nicer than dying on cold, hard rocks. </p><p> </p><p> “I will worry about my life and my conscience <em> if </em> I leave Fort Resolution next year,” he proclaimed. “And if I am horrified at what was done, I will call myself a hypocrite. And live on in spite of myself.”</p><p> </p><p> “I can not even picture doing that,” Francis admitted quietly.</p><p> </p><p>James could not quite either. Reaching home seemed a preposterous thought to him after all this, but he could not show that to the men. Or to Francis. </p><p> </p><p> James rested his bony knuckles against the back of Francis’ warm hand - a comfort for them both - as he told one of the half lies he was so good at. “Then I will picture it for us both.”</p><p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you got this far, well done and thank you for reading!</p><p>- I don't think I need to stat I don't support eating people, but this is the internet, so I'm saying it here that its fucked up. That being said, the real men were pushed to this through the horrific circumstances they found themselves in, and I pass no judgement on them. And I hope I never find out what being driven to that is like. Peace.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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